Ideal
by gentillealouette
Summary: It was his innocence that made him dangerous, thought Black. All the power of a king, but with the unadulterated idealism and naïveté of a child. And here he was, drifting to sleep by a crude campfire, his belongings at Black's feet. Oneshot.


**A/N: Hello ! This is my first ever isshushipping fic, and apart from the weird insubstantial ending, I'm pretty proud of it. Granted, it's pretty much pure unapologetic angst and fluff. But still! N/Black is preeeetty much my life. Please don't be afraid to review honestly, crits are welcomed.**

**Enjoy!**

N was beautiful, Black supposed, in that brittle, choleric way; twitchy, fragile like a bug, but determinedly self-unaware. N was beautiful, but not like a classical work of art or the web of a Galvantula - beautiful like a perfectly choreographed heist or coup, beautiful like the most practised liar. N was a man of integrity and therein lay his beauty; N was passionate and eager and self-sacrificing, but not to Black, never to Black. N lived for his principle and it was into that that he poured his soul, his whole being. Oh yes, N was beautiful; beautiful and intense and steadfast and strong, and never, ever sparing Black a second glance.

Black's eyes probed the somnolent face, tenderly, guiltily; drank in the porcelain brow, smooth and unfurrowed, the pale eyelashes, the angular planes of his cheekbones and jaw, the tiny sliver of teeth exposed between his lips. N. By firelight, he looked somehow less severe. Even gentle. Vulnerable. He lay with his face turned towards Black, eyes closed, breathing softly. It was impossible to be sure of whether or not he was asleep.

When Black had bumped into his friend outside the Mistralton Gym, N spoke in earnest with his bemused but willing Seismitoad, knelt by Black's side with his face upturned to the Pokémon's. Something softened there in those inscrutable grey eyes as he took in the Seismitoad's response, and he nodded, placing a hand to its head as he got back to his feet and turned to Black. "This Seismitoad trusts you for some reason," he'd said, smiling slightly. "That's good! If every person and Pokémon cared about one another like you two do, I could watch over the future of people and Pokémon without having to liberate Pokémon from people who just want to use them…"

And he'd trailed off as usual into one of his idiosyncratic speeches, explaining to Black his plans to 'resurrect a legendary Dragon-type Pokémon' and terrify the world into bloodless submission. Black said nothing, watching N's guileless face shift from fortitude to fleeting glee to regret as he looked down to the younger trainer: "Pokémon and Trainers who care about one another, like you and your Pokémon, will be separated. And that does break my heart a little."

Black couldn't explain what it was that had driven him to catch N's sleeve as he turned to go, that had forced his eyes to the ground as the older boy hesitated. "I – I understand." He felt N's quizzical, equivocal eyes on him and faltered, biting his lip. "But you don't…you don't have to go just yet, N."

It was his innocence that made him dangerous, thought Black. All the power of a king, but with the unadulterated idealism and naïveté of a child.

And here he was, drifting to sleep by a crude campfire, his belongings at Black's feet. King of Team Plasma. Hero of prophecy. Aspiring dictator. Black sighed.

"N. Are you awake?" he murmured.

Not so much as a twitch of the lips. N showed no sign of having heard Black's question at all, but shifted wearily in his sleeping bag. Black took a deep breath and continued, voice slow and tentative.

"I don't understand you," he confessed. "I mean – I should hate you, really. I should be afraid of you. You say it's wrong for us to use Pokémon to our own ends, but all you want is to manipulate the people of Unova with a Pokémon, whether the Pokémon wants to or not…you say one thing and you mean another, and I don't think you've ever even liked another human being." He paused and leaned forward, cupping his cheek in his palm. "How…how does someone like you…become someone like you, N? To see the things you've seen…"

N coughed and Black broke off abruptly, one hand coming to his mouth. But it seemed the prospective hero was still fast asleep; nose twitching, he let out a soft sigh as he repositioned himself in the sleeping bag. The moment was gone, though – no more words came, and Black sat tense and contemplative, hands clasped before his mouth. Here before him lay the leader of Team Plasma; all of his weakness, all of his secrets, his every material possession spread at Black's feet. Here before him lay the greatest threat to the Unova region. N was dangerous, without a doubt; N cared nothing for the human condition; N would stop at nothing to create his ideal world. But what could Black do? What could he do? How does one stop the terrorist who takes your hand without a second thought as he walks beside you, the fanatic who leaves his bag unzipped; sleeps still and trusting at the feet of his enemy?

Taking pains to snap not a single twig, Black eased himself down from his log to sit at N's side, legs crossed, hands in his lap. The older boy lay with his arms wrapped tightly around his torso, head rolled back, exposing the smooth white skin of his throat. He wore a loose, short-sleeved black shirt; just visible on his arms was a tapestry of yellowing bruises, scabbing hollows, pale scars. It didn't come as a shock, but the sight sent an uncomfortable pang through Black's chest anyway. He sighed and leant forward, reaching very gently for N's hand and bringing his delicate wrist to his mouth.

It was a moment that should have been marked by a chorus of singing Clefable or a meteor shower or at least a dreamy sigh, from either party; but instead, Black closed his eyes, laced his fingers through N's and pressed his lips gently to each ceramic knuckle in succession, and the crickets roared and the fire crackled and the world continued to spin. And Black, with eyes squeezed shut, whispered to the night: "I can't support you, N. I know that you'll be gone in the morning, and before long I'll have to fight you – really fight you, N, I'll have to protect Unova. I'll have to protect them from you." His voice cracked, and his other hand rose to grasp N's, as tightly as he dared. "But – Arceus – I wish you didn't have to do this, N. I could stay with you. I could keep you safe…"

And Black opened his eyes to see N looking back up at him, bleary and empty-eyed, regarding him with bleak acceptance. Black let out a strangled noise of embarrassment and let the other's hand drop as the colour rose in his face, tears building pink and unbidden at the corners of his eyes. "I could protect you," he whimpered, and his hands began to shake. "N. You don't need to…"

Lethargic as he was, N sensed the impending hysteria in Black's voice and propped himself on one elbow; reaching with his free hand, he hooked his fingers at the back of the younger boy's head and pulled it towards him, stifling his sob with a gentle, prolonged kiss which succeeded only in cleaving Black's heart cleanly in two. He tasted citrus, jasmine, the metallic flavour of rain. He did not open his eyes as the older trainer broke the kiss. "Don't worry so much," N advised him quietly, his hands tracing the soft lines of his jaw and his throat, brushing the tears from his trembling cheeks as if it were the most natural thing in the world; pressing his forehead against Black's without a moment's hesitation. His voice was rapid and clipped, as usual, but laced with something warm. "Soon, Black, you and I will clash for the last time, the deciding time. Soon we'll know which ideal aligns with the truth. But until then, if you trust that you're right, be calm."

Black took a deep, shrilling breath, swallowed three times in rapid succession, paused, and then nodded. "N."

N blinked dozily at the trainer, his fingers languidly mapping the dips and knolls of his collarbone. "Yes?"

It took a moment before Black had worked up the courage to ask. "Do – do you – care about me at all, N?" His eyes determinedly avoided N's, though he couldn't help but shiver as those bitten brittle fingertips drifted up to his throat, behind his ear. "I'm a 'nice trainer', I know, but…me. Black. Do I mean anything to you? Anything at all…"

N smiled bemusedly; he could never understand the way such things meant so much to Black. Could never understand the effect it had on the quiet, sheltered Black to see such passion and love in his face as he spoke of the voices of Pokémon; could never understand the tension he'd imposed on romantic, impressionable Black as the Ferris wheel climbed; could never understand the electricity, literally palpable, the sparks that flew between them as he stepped towards exhausted, lonely Black and told him, bursting with anticipation and self-assuredness, that he had been chosen. N was concerned with the liberation of Pokémon. N was not concerned with the starry-eyed delusions of a young Pokémon trainer.

"I said you were my friend, didn't I?" he replied, mildly. "Of course I care about you." The unspoken postscript, the deal-breaker: _you are not relevant to my ideal._

Black closed his eyes, braced himself and took a long, steeling breath. He took N's hand once more, folded it in both of his own and pressed on it one last kiss. "You're going to leave me."

"I'm going to have to."

A loaded hush passed between them, and N lay down once more, his hand still clasped in Black's. He broke the silence with a gentle, merciful prod.

"It's late, Black. Please try to get some sleep."

Black glanced down at N, N with his porcelain brow, his pale eyelashes and his sharp features, N who was beautiful because he cared nothing for Black, N who was naïve and battered and unknown and alone. N whose lips tasted of lemon and rain, N whose hand was limp and compliant in Black's own. N the terrorist. N the victim. Black watched him and vacillated and sighed and then N, lying half asleep at Black's feet, did the most miraculous thing: _he opened his arms._

The next morning, as Black slid reluctantly back into consciousness, he found that the absence of N's warmth beside him left him shivering. He yawned and murmured, "the truth and the ideal, huh? Why are you so sure you can make them match up?"

The sun had just split the horizon; the sky above was still creeping with the greyish-pink tinges of the night before, and shrubs rustled with waking Deerling and Watchog. The embers in Black's makeshift fireplace still glowed. And N was gone, gone, gone, and with him Black's hysteria, his idealism, his desperation. The night before was as a dream. Scratching his head groggily, Black thought hopelessly to himself that he wasn't worried that N was right. He was not worried that N would not have to leave, that N would find happiness, that N would be validated.

He was worried that N was wrong.

Black sat up in his sleeping bag and stretched. His mouth tasted of citrus and jasmine and rain.


End file.
